‘Who the hell are you?’ the one who had been driving demanded once more. ‘I asked you what’s your regiment.’
Well, it couldn’t be the Special Air Service. That would not come into existence for decades to come. Or perhaps now not at all.
‘I’m just a territorial,’ Stanton replied, belatedly trying to blend into the background from which he had irrevocably and so stupidly leapt. ‘Not real army at all, I’m a tourist really.’
But he knew he didn’t look like a tourist, or at least not the type of British tourist usually to be seen gently taking in the sights of Old Stamboul. He was tall, tough and rugged-looking, dressed for action in his thick socks and boots, grey moleskin trousers and tweed. The five men were eyeing him with growing suspicion.
‘Show me your papers,’ the lead man demanded. ‘I want to know exactly who you are and where you come from.’
Stanton was carrying identification papers in both English and German. The English ones were in his own name and established him as an Australian gold-miner and engineer, but he certainly didn’t want to have this identity placed on any official record. He was supposed to be a shadow, making zero impact on the history through which he was passing.
‘You have no authority here,’ Stanton replied. ‘I might just as well ask for your papers since it’s you who are bringing the army into disrepute. But it’s getting hot and I can’t be bothered so if you’ll excuse—’
‘Guard the door, Tommy,’ the leader instructed. ‘I think we need to talk to this chap.’
One of the group went and stood in front of the door. The other four took a step towards Stanton.
His options were few and none of them were attractive. He could, of course, drop to one knee, whip the machine gun out from his bag and kill all five of them. He didn’t judge that any of the men facing him were armed. Even if they were, he felt confident that he could dispatch them all before any one of them was able to haul out and cock the type of heavy, steel handgun they might be carrying. Stanton’s own little Glock was so reliable, rapid and accurate in its fire that with his special training and the added element of surprise his accusers would not stand a chance.
But creating a blood bath in the middle of a densely crowded neighbourhood was scarcely the action of a shadow.
Could he bribe them? He had plenty of money. But he guessed that his interrogators would view such an offer with contempt. Any effort in that direction would no doubt only serve to confirm their clearly growing suspicion that he was some kind of dirty foreign spy.
But if they held him and searched him and discovered all the various astonishing things inside his bag the game was up anyway. The authorities would hold him for ever trying to work out who and what he was.
In the time it had taken for Stanton to think these thoughts his opponents had taken two steps more towards him. Two more and they’d be within arm’s length. Stanton resolved that he would have to fight them hand to hand. The space was small and he was in a corner so they couldn’t all come at him at once. There was a good chance that given his superior training he would be able to punch his way through to the door with his bag. The odds weren’t bad; there were five of them, certainly, all fit young men and soldiers too. But they’d been up all night drinking and it was highly unlikely that they knew any of the hand-to-hand skills which to Stanton were second-nature. They’d all have boxed but according to strict Queensberry rules and Stanton didn’t intend to follow any rules. Whatever the odds, this offered him a better chance of completing his mission than spraying the crowded room with bullets.
Stanton had just determined that his first move would be a left-hooked karate chop to the prominent Adam’s apple of the group leader, and in fact his left arm was already in motion, when the owner of the cafe appeared once more.
‘Stop this please,’ he said softly. ‘Prayers are completed in the mosque.’
‘Oh, so you can speak a civilized language when it suits you, can you, Abdul?’ the leader of the five said over his shoulder as he advanced the final step towards Stanton. ‘Well, bully for you, but I’m not interested in your prayers or your damned mosque.’ The man addressed Stanton once more. ‘Now you show me your papers, my friend, or you’re coming with us to the military police to explain why you’re impersonating a British officer.’
‘And in a moment my cafe will be full,’ the Turkish owner went on, and something about his tone gave both Stanton and his opponent pause. ‘Full of Muslims, sir, devout Muslims and also Turkish patriots. Must I tell them that you have insulted me and my house with your crude observations and your demands for alcohol?’
The young Englishmen were astonished.
‘Are you threatening us?’ the leader asked.
‘This is Stamboul, not Pera,’ the owner went on. ‘This part of the city does not belong to foreigners. It belongs to us. You should leave now.’
Clearly the young Englishmen were torn, their pride and arrogance baulked at being ordered about by mere natives, but they could see that outside the window beyond the hookah pipe the tiny, ancient square was already filling up as the mosque disgorged. And the crowd was not the kind of westernized Turk that lived in Pera, this was Old Stamboul. There were no linen suits, no fezes, no clean chins, and no women at all. Instead there were pyjama-y trousers, flowing robes and flowing beards. Already two or three of the worshippers were at the door of the little cafe. Fierce men with knives at their belts. Stanton saw a pistol, although it must have been fifty years old.
The five officers might have been arrogant and half drunk but they weren’t completely beyond reason. This was still the age of Empire, the British had been spread very thinly and precariously across the globe for two centuries, and they knew they wouldn’t be the first soldiers of the Crown to disappear into a resentful local crowd, never to be seen again. The shock of Gordon’s fate at Khartoum had cast a shadow across the psyche of late Imperial Britain every bit as traumatic as the death of any fairy-tale princess had done a hundred years later.
‘All right, we’ll go,’ the leader said. ‘But you’re coming with us,’ he added, turning to Stanton. ‘Guy, get his bag.’
Once more Stanton stiffened in readiness. They most certainly were not getting his bag.
Once more it was the cafe owner who diffused the situation.
‘No,’ he commanded. ‘My friend did not insult the Prophet. He stays. You leave.’
Now the door of the cafe opened and the first thirsty customers came in from prayer. Within a moment the little space was packed with at least ten puzzled-looking men watching what was clearly some kind of stand-off between a group of feringi. The owner turned to the newcomers and spoke to them in Turkish. Whatever he said caused them to glare menacingly at the five now beleaguered Englishmen.
‘You’d better not let me see you again,’ the leader snarled in Stanton’s face. Then, with what dignity he could, he led his comrades out into the square, where they were the object of many sullen stares.
Stanton turned to his saviour and thanked him.
‘It is I who should thank you,’ the owner replied. ‘It is not so common for a foreigner crusader in our city to treat a Muslim as his equal.’
‘You speak very good English,’ Stanton observed.
‘Only when I choose to. Please. Another coffee.’
9
AFTER SENGUPTA’S LECTURE Stanton and McCluskey made their way back across the quad from the Great Hall of Trinity to the Master’s Lodge.
‘You seriously believe that you can send me back to 1914?’ Stanton said, having to raise his voice over the blizzard that was blasting into their faces. ‘And from the point when that happens … the previous one hundred and eleven years will never have existed?’